


You've Got Mail

by toastedmorals



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: American Revolution, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Didn't know what i was doing, Explicit Sexual Content, Ham is historical appearance because reasons, Historical, I Don't Even Know, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Office Sex, One Shot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Referenced lams, Referneced alex/laf, Sexual Tension, So proud of myself hahahah killme, Sorry if that bothers you, This is my first fic and I'm already here, Thomas is a jackass but what else is new, historical alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-19 18:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastedmorals/pseuds/toastedmorals
Summary: During the course of the Revolutionary War, Alexander Hamilton had prolonged correspondence with John Laurens and the marquis de Lafayette.Now that the war is over, the letters are found by the last person Hamilton wanted them to fall to. And Jefferson is not going to throw away his shot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To begin, I'm so sorry. I wrote this before I knew much about Hamilton the musical, as I read the book before getting into it. I fucked around with the ages slightly for no apparent reason, same going with Alex being historical. The non-con elements are there because this fic contains sexually-oriented blackmail, as well as Jefferson being a general prick.  
> I'm gonna leave this here, hopefully someone might enjoy it.

It was getting to the point that Jefferson couldn’t read reports on the Caribbean without blanching.  
Palm trees, sunny beaches, rolling waves; they all had the same connotation as incessant bickering and juvenile remarks. They all had the taint of a (stupid, stupid) side smirk and too much ambition for any man-boy to possibly possess. In short, they all reeked of Hamilton.  
Said stench was currently festering outside the door of his office, not even bothering to return to his own work space whilst trying to mend the flaws in his ongoing argument with Jefferson about foreign neutrality. Jefferson himself would have offered the completely rational advice of Hamilton simply drawing his tail between his legs and going home, but the abrasive youth was still too content to continue to beat his near-deceased horse at all hours of the day. Jefferson wondered why he even bothered coming to New York for conferences, when he knew that the majority of his time would be spent throwing verbal darts with the meddlesome immigrant. If it wasn’t for Washington and the actual importance of Jefferson’s own work (apart from not allowing Hamilton to burn the nation from within) he doubted he would even bother leaving Monticello. The blows to his pride made after that first cabinet meeting were not something that he liked to hold visible to the world, nor his confusion over Hamilton himself.  
Alexander Hamilton.  
In all of his correspondence with James Madison, nothing had prepared him for the shit storm that was to be Hamilton’s politics. Madison could not have accurately described how completely insufferable Hamilton was in person, stubborn, quick-witted, always fighting on the unconventional path. Jefferson had been raised to believe that the choices of his predecessors were to be taken as wisdom for his own decisions, to trust what those who had come before him had done to make his life what it was. But, for whatever reason he harbored, Hamilton seemed determined to rewrite all of the norms American society was already content with. He was like an iceberg in a peacefully flowing ocean, unnecessary to everyone else’s objectives and more than likely to cause more harm than help.  
And then there was the problem of Hamilton himself.  
“Okay, so I can see what you mean about section 6 being repetitive, but since you’re not able to grasp the concept to begin with, I’m thinking I’ll leave it in in order to help you out.”  
Light trickled in from the bay windows of the far side of the office, reminding Jefferson of how late it was getting. Hamilton stood just inside the doorway, balancing a stack of papers on his scrawny hip while reviewing some of the etchings he’d made on his “article,” if one could call it that. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing more of Hamilton’s collarbone and upper chest than Jefferson would have liked to see, and the strands falling from his messy ponytail shown red in the light, giving Hamilton’s face a fiery halo. He looked like Satan’s brat come to play politician on Jefferson’s doorstep.  
“I’m going to ignore that for the fact that it is far past your bedtime, and I don’t consult children while they’re too sleepy.”  
The muscles in Hamilton’s cheek twitched, betraying his annoyance more than the steady distaste glowing in his eyes.  
Oh how lovely, I believe that I’ve struck a nerve, Jefferson thought to himself.  
If there was anything that Jefferson had found he could hold over Hamilton, it was his age. While his youth made him a phenomenon to the press- blathering, sensationalist dogs in Jefferson’s opinion -it had to be aggravating to be constantly reminded that Hamilton was almost a decade or more younger than the rest of Washington’s staff. It was a fact that Hamilton, with all his obsessive writing and pompous speeches, would never be able to disentangle himself from.  
The other man smirked and stepped far closer to Jefferson’s desk than was comfortable.  
“What is it that you miss more, Thomas,” Hamilton started, toying with some of the custom quills Jefferson had laid out.  
“Don’t call me-”  
“Your house,” Hamilton continued, as if Jefferson had not spoken, “Or your slaves?”  
Jefferson ground his teeth, already bored with the same taunts Hamilton and his lot happily threw his way. The boy had the nerve to smile down at him, his deep blue eyes flashing obnoxiously, ivory skin almost flush with the delight of mocking his enemy.  
Jefferson wanted to know what those eyes looked like when broken, when Hamilton’s skin shone bright with humiliation, instead of petty satisfaction.  
Jefferson wanted today to be that day.  
“I assume it must be hard for you,” Jefferson drawled, not missing a beat, “Being all these miles from home, no company, barely any friends, resorting to lurking around my office like an unwanted shadow.”  
Hamilton frowned. “New York is my home,” he said through gritted teeth.  
Interesting, Jefferson observed, that he didn’t deny his loneliness.  
“Of course, of course, but then again, when can an immigrant truly call any land his home? Rachel, was that your mother’s name? Yes, yes, you know what they say about sons of whores- the whole world is their homeland.”  
White knuckles gripped the mahogany edges of Jefferson’s desk, threatening to break Hamilton’s skin before his hands broke the wood itself. The crease between Hamilton’s eyebrows deepened, his posturing changing ever so slightly into the offensive. Jefferson wouldn’t let him know that he was testing him, wanting Hamilton to provoke a fallout that even he couldn’t find his way out of.  
“Funny that you can talk to me about loneliness,” the young man quipped, practically spitting, “When everyone knows that your favorite source of company is back in Monticello, loathing the day that you return.”  
Jefferson folded his hands under his chin, refusing to let his anger escape from the bottom of his stomach. Hamilton was uncurling now, planting his grubby hands on Jefferson’s desking and leaning towards him like he could inflict more pain upon Jefferson through proximity. The growing dark gathered beneath Hamilton’s sharp cheekbones, giving his a macabre, almost demonic expression.  
He pressed on.  
“We all know how you like them- helpless, nowhere to run to. It must be such a release for you, fucking your slaves, with all that pent-up anger free at your disposal. I honestly don’t know how you can get on in Congress, without someone to act like they need you, like you’re desirable. I guess that’s why none of them women in court will touch you- they already know you’re getting all that you ever can need, and you don’t even have to pay for it.”  
Silence fell over the room, punctuated by Hamilton’s pants, struggling to control his breathing like the dog he was. Jefferson felt a taut cord within him snap, unleashing the floodwaters that had been building since the end of the war. This insolence, coming from a boy nearly twelve years his junior, and backed by months of childish foolishness, was simply too much for Jefferson to bear. He wanted to yank the red strands from Hamilton’s hair tie and hold him off of the ground until he begged, until he admitted that he wasn’t some god of intellect, in no way more immortal or superior to those around him. He wanted to mark that ivory skin with bruises, to cover the irritatingly jovial freckles across the bridge of Hamilton’s nose with scarlet, until his face was too sore to consider opening his gaping hole of a mouth.  
Instead, Jefferson slowly stood up, relishing each of the six inches he had on Hamilton, glaring down at the boy with barely controlled fury. Without letting his eyes leave Hamilton’s stormy blue, Jefferson reached his hand down to open the desk drawer to his right. He lifted a thick folder that he knew would be at the top of the drawer, placing it on the desk between Hamilton and himself.  
Hamilton was the first to break focus, frowning at the folder Jefferson had placed on the desk.  
“What is that?”  
Jefferson smiled slowly, the image of a fox caught in a snare flashing behind his eyes.  
“These,” Jefferson said cooly, flipping open the front cover of the folder and tracing the pages with his index fingers, “Are some things that I believe you will remember quite well.”  
Jefferson heard Hamilton’s breath catch, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his slender throat. A stack of twenty letters spread out below them, each marked with Hamilton’s own penmanship, dating back to just previous to the revolutionary war. They were all marked to either John Laurens or the Marquis de Lafayette, two of Hamilton’s most popular colleagues.  
Jefferson nearly laughed at the look of horror spreading across Hamilton’s face, though the seething ember in his stomach was growing, not dissipating, begging Jefferson to feed it. Jefferson toyed with one of the pages, selecting a parchment at random.  
Hamilton blanched, futilely reaching out a hand as if to stop Jefferson.  
“No, please don’t-”  
“Dearest John,” Jefferson read, scanning the script of the letter, “It is with a longing heart that I write to you… each day my heart takes steps further into the chill waters of isolation… was it only a month ago that your body was curled to mine, wherein I found more solace than I ever could in this city…”  
Hamilton winced, his jaw harsh as he glared down at the floorboards, obviously distraught. Now Jefferson did smile, almost purring at the sight of Alexander distressed and vulnerable before him. Jefferson selected another letter.  
“...I dream of you almost nightly, Lafayette, and the time we spent together… in that field we found across the river… your mouth on mine… I ache for you, in my heart, in my mind, in my-”  
“ENOUGH!”  
Hamilton’s eyes were shining, the boy nearly in tears with his own humiliation. Jefferson looked over the parchment as if perplexed at the interruption.  
“Oh, but my child, we’re only getting started. There’s so much more to read,” Jefferson cooed, spreading his hands over the letters as if Hamilton had not yet seen them.  
“You… do not, call me a child,” Hamilton spat, pointing at Jefferson’s face with a shaking hand.  
Jefferson sighed.  
“Of course not, darling, I have never known a child to say such filthy things. You’re a right slut, now that I think of it, taking from two men at once. Is that where all that energy comes from? The thought of both of them fucking you senseless, like the little whore you are?”  
Hamilton’s mouth wound open and closed, trying and failing to contort his outrage into words, his pupils so wide that they nearly engulfed Hamilton’s irises in black.  
“We’re friends… it was a lonely time, none of us had anyone to turn to but each other.”  
Jefferson made a sympathetic sound in his throat, donning false empathy as if he could relate to Hamilton’s situation. He drummed his fingers on the desk, realizing that he had finally, finally, caught Hamilton.  
“Mmm, yes. Is that what you’ll tell the press after I release the letters to them?”  
Hamilton’s head snapped up, gazing at Jefferson with a wide, panicked expression.  
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”  
Jefferson tilted his head to the side, still holding a serene smile on his face.  
“Oh yes, dear, I believe I fucking would.”  
“But, why,” Hamilton sputtered, taking a step away, not realizing that there was no place to escape to, “What have I done to you, besides debate? I haven’t soiled your name or your family. I’ve never inflicted any kind of true harm, political or physical, upon you. Why would you go to such lengths?”  
Jefferson laughed hollowly, surprised and delighted at Hamilton’s own ignorance. The boy truly did have his head in the clouds.  
“You’ve mocked me,” Jefferson hissed, his tone betraying his mounting fury, “Both publicly and to my face. You’ve stripped me of my dominance, belittling me and questioning every decision I’ve made. You’ve accused me of atrocities, of abuse, or outright stupidity. You’ve intruded upon my personal areas as if they are your own. You’ve fought with me for the sake of fighting, even when you know that the outcome is inevitable. And now you stand here, with everything that you’ve done and are asking me how I can do this?”  
By the end, Jefferson is nearly shouting, leaning so close to Hamilton that they are nearly nose to nose. From here, Jefferson is swimming in the scent of him, of peppermint and freesia, the sweet aroma only aiding the fire in his blood.  
Hamilton is deathly pale, hardly blinking as he stares back at Jefferson.  
“Please… Thomas, please. I’ll do anything.”  
Jefferson hears this, his mind snapping into action and his body moving before he’s aware of it, slowly stalking around the desk until he is toe-to-toe with Hamilton, forcing the boy to tilt his chin up in order to look him in the eye.  
“Anything?”  
Hamilton is shaking, his breaths fast and shallow, his face almost reverent in his fear as he looks up at Jefferson.  
“Anything.”  
Jefferson doesn’t smile, but the satisfaction of knowing he has won blossoms in him, the black feeling in his stomach transforming into something more wicked, sensual. It’s languid, it’s heavy, and it feels like honeyed whiskey burning in his soul.  
Desire, he thinks belatedly, recognizing the feeling stirring in his trousers.  
“On your knees,” Jefferson says simply, slowly, not caring to gauge Hamilton’s reaction.  
Confusion and then incredibility dawns on Hamilton’s face, once again leaving him without a coherent response.  
“W-what? No, you can’t be-”  
“On your knees.”  
Jefferson repeats it simply and turns to lean against the wood of his desk, waiting. Hamilton sways slightly, his eyes flicking back and forth, as if reality is dancing in front of him. While he weighs his options, Jefferson takes the chance to observe him in profile. His face, like the rest of his, is achingly thin, all fine-boned and jutting edges. His jaw cuts a sharp line into his neck, barely graced by any sign of facial hair or blemishes. The lush expanse of Hamilton’s lips tremble as he mouths words to himself, seeming to come to a decision.  
He’s beautiful, Jefferson thinks, the thought crossing his mind with a clarity that he’d once been incapable of. Alexander Hamilton was beautiful in the most aggravating, dangerous way possible, making the current situation all the more intense.  
“There are other ways,” Jefferson says suddenly, “But I can’t promise they’d be any more enticing.”  
Hamilton shakes his head.  
“No.”  
With that, Hamilton drops to his knees in front of Jefferson, cheeks flushed red and eyes unfocused.  
Jefferson smirks again, the roaring in his blood reaching a crescendo. He undoes the buckle of his pants and pushes the fabric just far enough down to draw himself out. He gives his length a few tugs, barely needing any help with the sight of Hamilton kneeling obedient and quiet before him, his normally restless hands folded in his lap. He braces his hands against the desk, his breath catching as Hamilton finally moves, opening his mouth to hesitantly lap at Jefferson’s head.  
As Hamilton swirls his tongue around his tip, Jefferson reaches down and pulls the hair tie from Hamilton’s hair, letting the auburn waves fall through his fingers.  
He feels how much Hamilton loathes him, loathes this, loathes the feeling of being submissive to anyone else. But as he opens his mouth to take more of his length, Hamilton’s hand comes up to reach for something to anchor him, slender fingers grasping Jefferson’s hip.  
Jefferson moans and grabs a fistful of Hamilton’s hair, bucking slowly into the younger man’s mouth. His tip hits the back of Hamilton’s throat and Jefferson’s vision flashes white, his breaths gaining a slight whining note.  
“Look at you,” he pants, “Almost cumming from the weight of my cock in your mouth.”  
Hamilton groans, causing waves of ecstasy to float up Jefferson’s abdomen. He can see Hamilton’s cock rising in his own pants, the fabric not sufficient as Hamilton grinds against himself. He sucks on Jefferson’s cock with abandon, the pressure of his tongue relentless and all-encompassing, trying to cover all of Jefferson at the same time.  
Jefferson closes his eyes, hips gyrating wildly as he grabs the back of Hamilton’s head, feeling the other man open his mouth even wider, giving up sucking in order to let Jefferson take him, to fuck his pretty mouth. Jefferson holds Hamilton close against his cock, both whining and moaning as their bodies move together, as Jefferson closes in on his climax.  
Hamilton looks up at Jefferson through long, pale lashes. His eyes, instead of the outrage that had graced them earlier, are smouldering with desperation. His lips are stretched wide to encompass Jefferson, his cheeks hollowed to accept his cock.  
Jefferson’s fingers scramble for the back of Hamilton’s neck, pushing and pulling out of him with wet, filthy sounds, filling the quiet of his office.  
“Alexander,” he moans, for the first time, feeling the younger man’s forehead resting against his stomach as Hamilton takes all of him, his tongue seizing him, the hand not holding Jefferson’s hip reaching into his trousers and toying with Jefferson’s balls, tugging on them.  
And with that, all of the fury and desire in Jefferson crashes through him, a cry wrecking through his lungs as he cums deep into Hamilton’s throat, faintly aware of Hamilton holding him by the hips, letting Jefferson buck and pour into him.  
Hamilton pulls himself off Jefferson with a filthy sound, returning to his knees and panting, arousal still blatantly obvious in his pants.  
Jefferson keeps his hand in Hamilton’s messy hair, the two of them reeking of sex as they breathe in the dark air.  
Catching his breath, Jefferson looks down at Hamilton, still in no condition to rise from the floor.  
Their eyes meet, both knowing the game had changed into something deeper, more dangerous.  
“That,” Jefferson breathed, watching Hamilton’s flushed cheeks, “Should be sufficient.”


	2. Opened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton returns to Monticello with Washington, and Jefferson realizes that the game is not quite finished yet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG YOU GUYS! Thank you so much for all the support for the last chapter, I would have never thought anyone would be willing to express that they enjoyed it! Sorry for everyone who thought this was going to be more of an angst chapter with Jefferson feeling guilty, I went a little off the the expected path. I hope you enjoy it, and know that I have a hurt/comfort story in the works for Ham, so stay tuned. I have to admit, I'm a little uncomfortable with my use of non-con elements in this fic, so I'm going to leave this with two chapters. I hope you enjoy, and thank you so much again!

Jefferson received word on Sunday that President Washington would be stopping by his office to discuss Jefferson’s take on the French embassy’s relocation in Paris. He spent the week preparing, arranging his house in anticipation of the President’s arrival, not letting the steady quaking beneath his skin overwhelm his responsibilities. He expected the slow thrum of shame pulsating in his stomach at night, beneath the covers where he sheltered the memory of that afternoon. He expected the image of Hamilton- flushed, hurried, shattered -rising to his feet and stumbling out of Jefferson’s door that evening, leaving all of his precious papers scattered on the floor.  
‘At what point am I a monster?,’ Jefferson must have thought to himself a hundred times throughout the course of the week. At his desk, in the dying light of the window, beneath an oak tree near the fence. Was it after he knew that Hamilton was caught, no place to run, no words to free him? Was it in the relishing of Hamilton’s head, trembling beneath his palm? Or was it as simple as the unbuckling of his belt, one action to define the rest of his existence. Jefferson, being who he was, being the man locked inside of his own mind, knew the guilt would come in waves, pushing up against the shore of his sanity. But yet, even deeper within his thoughts, Thomas found a venomous oasis, spitting hateful justifications for his actions, telling him that Hamilton had it coming, had wanted it, had flushed and gasped and whined, all for him.  
That part, well that part he knew to expect as well.  
He did not, however, amidst the dust and rumble of Washington’s entourage, expect to see Hamilton, standing with his head down behind the President’s shoulder, engulfed in a navy wool coat.  
“Thomas,” Washington greeted, grasping his hand formally.  
“Mr. President, sir, make yourself comfortable.”  
Washington murmured in response to the pleasantry, taking no time before stepping into the shadowed entrance of Jefferson’s home. Hamilton made as if to follow him, making a circle around Jefferson as if he was a particularly muddy pothole, or a beggar on a sidewalk. Thomas turned his head towards the other man, watching him tense and halt at his words.  
“Alexander,” he said simply, pressing against the careful glass Hamilton had built around himself.  
Jefferson could see the flinch Hamilton was trying to suppress, the sharp movement all in the tightening of the younger man’s jaw, the creasing lines around his already shadowed eyes. He did not look at Jefferson, standing in a way that was at once fearful and defiant, at once classic Hamilton while maintaining undertones of what had happened.  
‘I made him this way,’ Jefferson thought, almost incredulously. The sleek, acidic feeling was returning to Jefferson’s stomach, lapping at the image of Hamilton’s distraught appearance.  
Jefferson shut the door behind him as the two entered the front hall.  
٠ ٠ ٠ ٠  
“Well, gentlemen, I believe that we have reached an agreement, thankfully. I’ll plan on introducing the discussion when Congress reconvenes next month, and from there the issue shall belong to the floor.”  
Washington rose, unbending his long legs with some reluctance, betraying some of the President’s heightening age.  
“Hamilton, do you have anything you would like to add?” Washington looked down at his younger counterpart, absently eyeing a paperweight Jefferson had received as a gift from the Prussian ambassador.  
‘He knows something is wrong,’ Jefferson thought to himself, watching both men across the table. ‘But he doesn’t know how to say it.’  
Hamilton barely lifted his gaze to eye the president, his posture not changing from the huddled stance he had assumed the entire meeting. He shook his head sharply, foregoing words in favor of keeping his presence as small as possible.  
Washington frowned slightly, obviously concerned for his Secretary, but nevertheless gathered his things and headed for the door.  
“Hamilton, I will see you outside. Jefferson, I thank you again for hosting us. I hope that you treasure these days in Monticello before we are in session once more.”  
‘If only he knew,’ Jefferson smirked to himself wryly.  
After exchanging his farewells with the President, Jefferson walked to his desk, leaving Hamilton motionless at the meeting table in the middle of the room.  
The air felt like a cornfield before a thunderstorm, when even the birds can feel the warning that the sky brings, ducking their heads beneath ruffled wings. Jefferson remembers a story his mother told him when he was younger, about how crows can sense danger from miles away, and to always heed their paths when fleeing.  
Jefferson does not look up, but he can feel Hamilton watching him from across the room, his violet eyes burning in the gloom.  
“I left my papers.”  
Jefferson raises his eyebrows at the simple words, feigning nonchalance as Hamilton practically throws the words at him. He reaches into a drawer, pulling out Hamilton’s work, all neatly stacked and tied together with a new strand of twine. He tosses the pile onto the desk, mimicking his actions from a week prior. Hamilton continues to glare at him for a moment before rising.  
With pale fingers, Hamilton retrieves the stack, thumbing through the papers. Jefferson watches the way that Alexander’s freckles blend with the undeniable blush on his cheeks, fading into the hairline by his ears.  
“I didn’t take anything. It wouldn’t have been worth it regardless,” Jefferson adds, pressing Hamilton even further. He wants to see it, he wants to see all this fake calm and defiance snap. He wants Hamilton to admit that he has lost, that he has been taken, conquered. He wants the cities within those infuriating blue eyes to crumble and wash away, leaving nothing but Jefferson in their wake.  
Hamilton finally flicks his gaze upwards to Jefferson, looking him in the eye for the first time that day.  
“Fuck you.”  
The statement is simple enough in its delivery, Hamilton clutching his papers with all the dignity of a scorned school boy. And yet the dark notes within the tenor of the immigrant’s voice betrays his appearance, opening the door to Alexander Hamilton, masters of words, menace to expectations, threat in his own right.  
This, this is also something that Jefferson expects.  
“Is that so, Mr. Hamilton?” Jefferson takes the leering tone out of his words, not needing to add innuendo to their game.  
Hamilton doesn’t reply, just shakes his head and turns to leave the office.  
Jefferson watches him go for a moment, listening to his footsteps as he heads back to his desk. Right when Jefferson thought he was really gone, the footsteps ceased, balancing in the shadows at the edge of the room.  
“It will never work, you know.”  
Jefferson glances up, surprised, watching the younger man glower at him from the darkness.  
“What won’t?”  
“The plan,” Hamilton said sharply, as if Jefferson was slow. “Congress won’t agree to it, and even if the do, we all know that financially the banks won’t allow for the embassy to be in the wrong city. France has become too dependent on American commerce to allow the embassy to be anywhere except for near the capitol buildings themselves. It’s the same reason that Spain and Britain did exactly that- they don’t want there to be any leeway or interception between Parliament and the embassy, lest there be compromised information. Lafayette will stand for it, because it will be less costly for the city, but even he knows the security measures we are risking.”  
Through his speech, Jefferson watched Hamilton step out of the shadows, deciding to occupy the center of the room instead.  
Jefferson recognized Hamilton’s move, even though he could not yet believe he had played it. He could have left here, with his work and his defiance, refusing to openly acknowledge that Jefferson had broken him. There had been no press on Hamilton’s doorstep, no scandalous papers or pamphlets concerning his sodimy, so Hamilton must have at least some faith that Jefferson was not going to go back on his word. There was no reason for Hamilton to press further than he already had; he could have left Monticello with a lock on what had happened, and with reasonable security that Jefferson would throw away the key.  
And yet here he was, loose and waxing eloquent about foreign trivialities in the middle of Jefferson’s office, five feet from the spot Thomas had fucked his mouth a week earlier.  
‘Curious,’ Jefferson thought, ‘Always the most surprising player.’  
Without saying a word, Jefferson walked to the front of the desk, leaning against the wood and folding his ankles in front of him.  
“Apologies, Mr. Hamilton, for I know how you love to go on,” Jefferson said coolly, “But is there a reason that you were lack to bring these comments up while the President was here?”  
Hamilton glared at him, every molecule of his appearance conveying that Jefferson damn well knew why Hamilton did not want to speak to him.  
“No words, Alexander? How curious.”  
Hamilton finally did flinch at the use of his first name, his shoulders and neck moving with their own regard above the rest of his body.  
“Does it not even bother you,” Hamilton finally spat, “That you accuse me of the same crime that you go on to commit? You know nothing about the war. You don’t know the agony of watching your comrades falling around you, not because they died in the fight for their country. No, because they were starving, and cold, and the world decided to hold its breath to see if our army could survive on defiance and the meat of our own horses. You can call me a sodomite, you can call me product of sin, but until you have choked on the smoke of your friends’ flesh burning, do not tell me that you would not take affection where you found it.”  
Hamilton panted, unable to catch his breath as it ripped in and out of his lungs.  
Jefferson was motionless, taking a moment before stepping towards Alexander, closing the space between them until Jefferson could smell peppermint and freesia, almost feel Hamilton’s wild breathing across from him. Hamilton did not move, the iron in his eye staking his lack of action more with willpower than the panic of a caught animal.  
Jefferson looked down at him.  
“Alexander-”  
“Don’t you dare-”  
“I never accused you of anything.”  
Their gazes meet, chocolate brown meeting hot blue in a chaos of fury and confusion and need. Words hung suspended in the air, begging the two men to reach out and grasp them.  
“You shamed me,” Hamilton nearly whispered.  
Jefferson smiled, the expression on his lips both cruel and sorrowful.  
“Aren’t we all just oceans of shame, never wanting anyone else to taste the water?”  
And so like that it happened. Jefferson couldn't remember who reached out first, whether it was Hamilton’s fingers bruisingly tight at his neck, or Jefferson’s palms anchored at the small of the young man’s back, pulling Hamilton towards him. There was no gentleness in their movements, just the slow, rolling crescendo of necessity and hurt tethering them to each other.  
Hamilton was babbling, swearing, breathing streams of commentary and accusation as they released their hands to each other, Alexander’s hands crawling up the back of Jefferson’s jacket, Thomas pulling the skin at Hamilton’s cheekbone toward his hair, finally, finally, leaning down to shut him up.  
Their lips met, and it tasted like every bit of chaos of warships colliding in a harbor, opposing steels melting into each other. Alexander, stripped of his words, bit Jefferson’s lip, causing the Virginian to growl and pull him back by his hair, one arm still locked around Hamilton’s waist.  
Jefferson hefted the smaller man up, smirking at Alexander’s waifish feel in his arms, his almost feminine arms climbing around his shoulders. With his mouth at Alexander’s neck, Jefferson ripped away the white fabric of his collar, sinking his teeth into the milky white and sucking, hearing the young man cry out and cling tighter against him.  
With his back nearly at the desk, Jefferson continued to wreak havoc on Hamilton’s throat as he turned the two of them around, Jefferson now completely holding the weight of Alexander in his arms.  
Jefferson kept one arm around a babbling Hamilton as he swept the contents of the desk’s surface to the side, immediately pushing Hamilton down onto the wood, the immigrant’s eyes blown wide as his back was pressed to the flat surface.  
‘He looks like an angel’ Jefferson thought. A mewling, breathless angel with a halo of fiery hair and a flush that Thomas wanted to reveal more and more of.  
Suddenly frustrated with the amount of clothing they both wore, Jefferson spared a moment to tear off his own jacket before stripping off Hamilton’s own jacket and shirt, working at the immigrant’s buckle as Alexander kicked off his boots.  
‘Merciful God in heaven,’ Jefferson thought, returning to biting down the length of the Hamilton’s chest as he took in the boy’s absolutely naked body. Smooth lines, narrow hips, pert nipples, panting chest, a proud, erect cock flush against Jefferson’s stomach. Hamilton nearly pushed Jefferson off as his hips pushed for more friction, words dripping from Alexander’s mouth as he fought for relief. Jefferson smirked.  
“Slut,” he said simply, towering over Hamilton, pressing down until Hamilton’s arms were trapped between the two of them, palms flat against Jefferson’s shirt.  
“You’re really going to call me a slut when it was you that felt entitled to act as if you had any right to look at me, who was so erroneously impartial to this that you would act as if nothing happened, knowing I would come here, knowing I would ask for the papers, you-”  
Hamilton was cut off as Jefferson flipped him onto his stomach, too caught in his words to avoid the Virginian’s bruising hold on his hips.  
Alexander’s moan punctuated the end of the shocked silence as Jefferson drew his ass up into the air by his hips, leaving Hamilton’s face and torso to be pressed into the wood, his searching fingers just out of reach of the end of the desk.  
Despite Hamilton’s ragged sentences and outraged gasps, Jefferson let his hands encircle to two, perfect spheres of Hamilton’s ass, kneading and spreading his cheeks as Hamilton writhed futilely.  
Continuing his ministrations with one hand, Jefferson reached one of his hands towards Alexander’s face, turning it to the side and simply commanding, “Suck.”  
Hamilton scowled but parted his lips, taking Jefferson’s fingers into his mouth. Thomas’s arousal rose as Alexander swirled his tongue around him, coating the fingers.  
Jefferson drew his hand away and fingered the entrance of Hamilton’s hole, barely brushing against the ring of tight muscle, preferring to watch the boy squirm and murmur nonsense beneath him, cursing Jefferson weakly.  
Slowly, but with force, Jefferson slid the first finger in, rocking Hamilton’s hips forwards in the process. Hamilton’s mouth opened as if to moan, his pride reappearing as Jefferson fingered and stretched him, curling inside of him.  
“Can you… hurry… the fuck up… you old fucker.”  
Hamilton spat each word up at Jefferson, his chin nearly on his shoulder as his chest was pushed further into the desk, Alexander’s body subconsciously submitting to Jefferson’s hand. Jefferson would have found it funny, if he had not been stumbling to a haze of lust and pent-up anger, to see Hamilton, knees on his desks, legs spread wide, ass up, and still hurling insults at his opponent.  
“Of course, dear.”  
Hamilton’s back arched as Jefferson pushed into him with one, powerful thrust, foregoing fingers for the he’d cock already freed from his pants.  
Jefferson gave Hamilton no time to adjust as he grabbed Hamilton’s hips, pulling him farther back onto his knees until his ass was flush with Jefferson’s stomach, making Jefferson grateful for his low-lying desk.  
Hamilton’s hands scrambled without purchase on the wood, allowing Jefferson to be the sole thing holding him up as the Virginian continued to thrust into him, making Hamilton whine and gasp breathlessly beneath him.  
Jefferson’s hand found the space between Hamilton’s shoulders, holding him down as the younger man tried to buck back on Jefferson’s cock. He could felt Alexander’s lungs contracting in rhythm to Jefferson’s thrusts, each slide of his cock making Hamilton more limp in his arms, until his head was simply lolling between his arms in ecstasy as Jefferson pulled his ass on and off his cock.  
Knowing that Alexander was close, besides being denied any attention to his own erection, Jefferson pulled out of Hamilton suddenly. Through the fire of delight that ignited with Hamilton’s needy whimper from the sudden emptiness in his ass, Jefferson spun the young man around and turned the two of them, Jefferson now fully seated on the edge of the desk.  
With Hamilton still hazy, Jefferson took the opportunity to wrap Alexander’s legs around his waist until his heels were on the desk behind them, pushing Hamilton’s hips onto his cock as Jefferson held him in his lap.  
Hamilton’s head rolled back, baring his throat to Jefferson, who leaned forward to graze his teeth against the boy’s collar, grabbing his ass and rocking him further and further onto his length.  
Jefferson’s fingers kneaded the flesh of Hamilton’s ass as they thrust wildly together, twin arousals crescendoing as they balanced on the edge of the desk. With a cry, Alexander came, soaking his bare chest as Jefferson continued to fuck him, bouncing his body on his cock.  
Moments later, Jefferson was cumming, an iron grip on Hamilton’s hips as he gushed into the younger man, completely sheathed in his ass. The waves of anger and longing burst through Jefferson’s blood, just as it had before. Except now, Jefferson had come to recognize the scent of blood on the water, beauty in its most dangerous form. They didn’t look at each other, but Jefferson dared to place a hand on the back of Hamilton’s head as he pressed his forehead into Jefferson’s shoulder, slowly regaining his breath. They stayed like that, Jefferson’s nerves hyper aware of Alexander’s skin against his, the arms that were not withdrawing from his neck.  
It had begun to rain outside, the dull thrum on the rooftop appropriate as the two breathed in unison, not moving out of each other’s embrace.  
“Hamilton!”  
Washington’s shout from outside of the door sent Hamilton scrambling from Jefferson’s lap, hurriedly trying to find the clothing strewn around the office.  
“Hamilton! You two better have not murdered one another!”  
Pants half on, Hamilton smirked at Jefferson, still leaning against the desk.  
‘Angel,’ Jefferson thought, watching the Secretary’s half-naked form glow in the honeyed light. ‘An insufferable angel.’  
Jefferson shot Alexander a smile of his own, feeling the excitement of shared sin course through him.  
“Not quite!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a rushed ending, but it's midnight, so here ya go! <3 Lovelovelove you all. Look out for my upcoming stuff, it should be a bit more coherent :)


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